


Can't Be Taken Back

by amissie_valvert



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Beating, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Cutting, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, I just saw the abominable bride and this actually correlates pretty well with their relationship, I've got a thing for Hurt!Mycroft, Injury, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft-centric, No Incest, OOC, Out Of Character Mycroft, Out of Character, Poor Mycroft, Redemption, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, just a bit not much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amissie_valvert/pseuds/amissie_valvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Sherlock says the one thing Mycroft can't cope with hearing?</p><p>I know it's vague... guess you'll just have to read it to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nobody Loves You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [movielover55](https://archiveofourown.org/users/movielover55/gifts).



> Mycroft Holmes is my favorite character in Sherlock, and like all my favorite characters I like it when they hurt. Damn, I must be a masochist! Oh well, Enjoy.

Mycroft Holmes strode in the door at 221B preparing himself for another one of his brother's out bursts at his presence, but it couldn't be helped, he needed Sherlock's  _help_ on this case. As much as it peeved him to admit it, especially if he had to admit it to his brother.

He loved his brother, and he worried about him constantly and he knew Sherlock loved him back they would just never show it to the world. To many people, to many liabilities.

"Hello, Brother Dear", he said settling a fake frown across his features. Sherlock didn't even look up from what he was looking at under the microscope. Mycroft walked a little closer. There was nothing under the microscope. Mycroft smiled to himself at his brother's antics.

"Brother, while we both may know that work's on John Watson you pouting into a microscope with no lens underneath it isn't going to make me go away." 

Sherlock looked up sharply at him, malice in his eyes, "Why are you even here, no one enjoys your presence they merely tolerate it. The only reason any tolerates your presence is because they are afraid of you, but I'm not afraid of you so", Sherlock's voice changed into something feral and hateful, "Leave me be".

Sherlock's voice threw Mycroft for a second. He never sounded so hateful towards him especially with no one else present. Cautiously Mycroft pressed on, setting the manilla folder on the table he retorted, "I've brought you a case".

Sherlock who had refocused on his empty microscope reattached his gaze to his brother. "Why do you waltz around London ordering everyone around? Is it because no one loves you? Do you have an urge to fill the void? Make yourself necessary, when in reality no one wants you".

The ice of Mycroft's heart shattered and his mask faltered, but it didn't matter Sherlock wasn't looking for him to be able to have seen it. Mycroft felt a physical ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Without retrieving the folder he turned on his heel and retreated out the door. Before he finished closing the door he heard the whisp of "Finally!" come out of Sherlocks mouth.

Mycroft felt like he wanted to cry. He would never, but he wanted to. He couldn't remember the last time he had such a strong urge it almost broke his control.

He flew down the stairs and into his unmarked car before any one could see his embarrassment. 

"Diogenes", he said to his driver, his voice cracking.

***

He had been sitting in the same armchair for the past four hours, It was now 9 p.m and Mycroft was more drunk than he had ever been in his life. He hadn't the strength to move from this one spot other than to refill his scotch. He was on his sixth, or was it his seventh double scotch. The same thought kept buzzing through his mind tormenting him,  **No one loves you, No one wants you**. Not even Sherlock.

Mycroft's never had friends and he accepted that because he knew he would always have Sherlock, how could he have misjudged their relationship to hugely?

Now Mycroft sat alone in the empty club, feeling truly alone for the first time since the Doctor announced the birth of his baby brother when he was seven years old.

Mycroft thought back to his childhood before Sherlock. 

He thought about how a day at school was a good day when he didn't get pushed down the stairs, he thought about how a day was bad if he got beaten up more than twice.

He thought about the endless nights with no sleep because his brain wouldn't stop, or because his parents fighting was too loud even with a pillow crushed into his skull.

He thought about the days when the beatings didn't end at school but continued at home by his father, or even sometimes his mother.

He thought about going to bed hungry when his parents forgot to make him dinner.

He thought about when Sherlock was born, how it no longer mattered what happened to him as long as he kept his brother safe.

The thoughts changed after Sherlock was born. A good day was a day his brother was kept safe. A bad day was a day when he heard his brothers cries.

Home life calmed down with the birth of Sherlock, his parents didn't scream at each other any more, didn't beat him as often. They were happy, because they had Sherlock. He was happy too, happy because of Sherlock.

When Sherlock got into trouble, he took the blame. He would never let Sherlock face the wrath of their parents.

***

A large crashing sound drew Mycroft from his room and into their father's study. The large framed painting of their grandfather that once stood above the fireplace not resided in two on the carpeted floor. A little Sherlock lay uninjured beneath it. Mycroft ran to his brother's aid.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Sherlock didn't respond, but he looked terrified. Not five seconds after he helped Sherlock to his feet did his father come storming in. When he saw the painting in two on the floor his eyes glazed over with anger.

"Which of you is to blame for this?"

Mycroft watched as Sherlock quaked with fear, "I did, sir". Sherlock stopped shaking and looked at Mycroft with awe.

"Get to your room", Mycroft didn't need to be told twice, he ran as fast as he could to his room, for once not caring for composure.

He couldn't walk for a day and a half, could't sit for 2 weeks, and was left bruised and sore for a month after that beating. He would do it all over again to protect Sherlock.

***

Mycroft came back into consciousness, a Diogenes employee shaking his shoulder. He looked to the clock 11:39 p.m it read. He nodded his thanks to the man who left without a word.

Mycroft was still completely inebriated, but he got up out of the armchair and walked to the exit. His driver was technically never off the clock but Mycroft didn't want to call the poor man at this hour so he decided to walk home. It wasn't that far was it?

It was 1:00 am before Mycroft got to his townhouse. He lived further than he recalled. He immediately climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

His bedroom was spartan, as he didn't spend much time at home. It merely contained a nice king-sized, four poster bed, a side-table ladened with paperwork, a dresser, and a wing-backed chair. He entered the large, but also spartan bathroom. He fiddled through the medicine cabinet for a moment taking something from it and then seating himself on the closed toilet seat.

He unravelled the package to withdraw a newly sharpened razor blade. As he unbuckled his trousers the taunts, not just from Sherlock but classmates and also his parents, came to the forefront of his mind.

**"You're so fat, Fatcroft"**

**"You know gingers don't have souls"**

**"Why can't you be more like your little brother"**

**"Wait in your room for your punishment, we are very cross at you for not getting 100%"**

**"Nerd, Geek, Loser, Twat, Cunt, Poofer,**   _FREAK"_

"STOP", he's shaking now, "Please... just stop the voices", he's praying to a God he doesn't believe in, because he can't bring himself to believe in a God who would let a child suffer like he has.

He rips his trousers down his legs, and stares at the scars, some old and faded, some jagged and pink, some barely finished scabbing, and he creates a litany of fresh ones.

Each time he drags the razor down his thighs he feels a little better, a little more clear minded. He continues until his energy evades him. The blood soaks his thigh, trousers, and pants. He grabs a flannel and starts whipping away the evidence of his self-hate. After he does he can barely stand and walk. When he makes it to the bed he collapses on top of it and passes out.

***

Mycroft is Seventeen and Sherlock is ten. They are, unusually for them, walking home from school, when Mycroft turns very pale.

"Walk faster, Sherlock", Sherlock's confused but complies.

"Oi, Freak", Mycroft flinches but doesn't turn around, he just keeps walking.

"I'm talking to you, ginger", the voices are getting louder. There is group of four boys walking towards them, all Mycroft's age.

"Run, Sherlock", and Sherlock does. Mycroft stays two paces behind Sherlock, always protecting him. He chances a glance behind him and sees the boys running, gaining not them.

"Run faster"

"I can't"

"No matter what happens keep running, Sherlock", and with that Mycroft stops running. Sherlock looks back but doesn't stop. Before Mycroft can turn around he's barreled into and thrown to the floor.

"I said we were talking to you, It's rude to ignore people, Ginger"

"My name is Mycroft", That earns him a quick kick in the stomach from one of the boys. The beat on him until he stops responding verbally, and physically. He's left in the alley they dragged him into. He's bleeding, sore, and cut up but he manages to limp home very slowly.

It's after 6 pm before he reaches home. Great I've missed dinner too, he thinks. Their parents are very strict, you miss dinner time, you don't eat. He hopes to get to his bedroom without a confrontation but his parents are waiting for him.

"Sherlock has told us what happened", his mother says unremorseful. Mycroft stays quiet.

"You can't even outrun a group of boys, Sherlock could, you're pathetic", they sneer at him. His unresponsiveness earns him a slap across an already bruised cheek, he winces.

"My apologizes, I shall strive to do better next time".

"I can't believe you're a Holmes", his father taunts, "Just go to bed".

And he does. That is the first night he dragged a razor blade across his skin, and he hasn't stopped since.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft knows he's dreaming, he knows it isn't real but he can't help but be terrified. He begs his body to wake up, to end this terrible reliving of a time past.

Tonight his dream is one that is constantly repeated, but the feeling of terror that washes over him whenever he has it never decreases in fervor. He's on the floor of his own bedroom, his father towering above him. His father slowly unbuckles his belt, it's agonizingly slow and his father knows it.

His father grabs the end of the belt in one hand, not the end with the buckle attached, no he grips the one that is leather, letting the buckle swing a little. Mycroft's entire body is tense but he doesn't show any more discomfort than he usually does, that would lead to a worse beating. 

His father brings the buckled part of the belt down on his back, Mycroft barely holds onto his scream. This has never happened before, his Father has never beaten him like this, at least not with this end of the belt. The second lash breaks his skin, and he screams for the first time during a beating.

The screams seem to urge his father on, he brings the belt down on his back harder.

Thankfully his door opens and Sherlock rushes into his room. There is blood everywhere. His father is still swinging, but Sherlock will talk some sense into his father like always.

But that doesn't happen, the dream alters. His father keeps beating on him as Sherlock bends down over him his father stops.

"No one loves you", Sherlock whispers in his ear, "No one wants you", and he stands again. His father restarts his beating and Mycroft screams again. He watches as Sherlock laughs at him, turns his back and walks out of his room.

***

Mycroft is sweating, his body finally waking up. He doesn't cry, he will never cry. He does get out of the soaked bed, he won't be able to sleep the rest of the night, like every other night when he has nightmares.

He wraps himself in his nightgown and walks downstairs to his study. Today technically is Sunday, he doesn't work today.

He spends the rest of the day drinking an absurd amount of alcohol, trying to push back the memories of his childhood. He makes it to three in the afternoon before he gives in and walks to the ensuite in his bedroom. He opens the medical cabinet again, withdraws his razors, pull his trousers and pants down, and sits himself on the floor his back leaning on the bathtub.

His legs are cherry red, inflamed, and irritated. They hurt to look at let alone place pressure upon. He entertains the thought of putting the razors back, to stop his self destruction. A well timed memory destroys his hopeful thinking and he drags the razor against his thighs again.

He cuts his thighs for many reasons; they are well-hidden, they are fatty and he doesn't have to worry about cutting to deep, and when he's feeling a little self destructive at work or in public all he has to do is cross his legs to feel a little pain.

He drags the razor down again, gritting his teeth. Years of beatings have made him un-naturally quiet when it comes to pain. It's pissed many kidnappers off that he doesn't externalize his pain.

Soon enough he can't find a place to cut that hasn't already had the razor dragged across it. He grabs a clean flannel he keeps stocked for this specific reason. He soaks it in burning water and drags it across his thighs, revealing in the sting it creates. Eventually he stems the bleeding and finishes cleaning himself up. He wraps his thighs in bandages uneager to stain his trousers. He sits on the floor until he has the energy to move.

***

( 2 weeks later)

It's getting bad again, his brain supplies. These last two weeks he's created a system; he works until exhaustion, before going to bed every night he cuts at his thighs, he gets three hours, five on a good night, of sleep before the same nightmare wakes him, then he drinks until morning.

Anthea has noticed something is different, he would be upset if she didn't, he did hire her because she was perceptive. He is confident she will never figure it out though.

Tonight he got three hours and 21 minutes of sleep before reawakening, he pours himself a scotch and dwells on his past.

***

Today was Sherlock's fifth birthday. He received a small Irish Setter puppy as a present that Mycroft's very envious over. He had always wanted a puppy but the twelve year old was told by his parents that dogs were to big of responsibilities, so he was never allowed one. He didn't complain when they brought Sherlock's present out, he didn't even say a word, he just kept quiet in the corner.

Sherlock was ecstatic of course. Mycroft didn't blame him of course, why should he, he was just a lad.

 

The memory changed to a few weeks later.

"Mycroft the dog ran through a puddle and has dragged dirt all over the house", his mother said handing him a few towels, "clean up after him, will you". As much as it sounded like a request Mycroft knew it was an order.

"But he's Sherlock's dog", Mycroft wasn't even allowed to finish the thought. He hadn't heard his father walk into the room behind him. His collar was grabbed from behind and he was physically turned to face his father.

"Are you fighting your mother, boy?", Mycroft shook his head rapidly.

"No, sir"

"Good", His father threw him onto the floor and into the dirt, dirtying his trouser with mud, "Now do as she asks".

Mycroft grew to hate the dog. Every responsibility that came with the dog fell to Mycroft. He fed the dog, took the dog on walks, and cleaned up after any messes he made, and the dog didn't even like him.

***

"What've you done?" Not-Anthea asked storming into 221B.

"Why do you always assume I've done something", Sherlock replies. "I haven't even seen Mycroft in two weeks".

"Perfect, thats when this started. What did you say to him?"

"I don't know, I've deleted the conversation"

Quick thinking Anthea logged onto the 'secret' cameras located within 221B as John walked into the living room.

"Good Morning Anthea"

"Morning Dr. Watson"

"Where's Mycroft been lately? Out of the country?"

"No he's been in London this whole time"

"That weird, usually he visits every couple of days, What did you do, Sherlock?"

"Why is it always me?"

Anthea sucked in breath.

"What?", John and Sherlock asked simultaneously.

Anthea held out the phone and replayed the video. It showed Mycroft and his last time at 221B. The last thing the camera caught as Mycroft retreated was the devastated look on his face after Sherlock told him no one loved him.

"HOW DARE YOU", Anthea nearly screamed. Anthea never lost control like that. She slapped Sherlock right across the cheek. John stood between the two.

"Relax, Anthea", John directed her into his chair across from Sherlock. "It can't be that bad"

"Cant be that bad...", She said looking at John, "You wanna know how bad it is". She looked straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"He's been cutting again, severely cutting. I saw a drop of blood on his trouser leg. He's not been sleeping. I can tell his night terrors have returned. He's lost weight. He drinks before work, I can smell it on his breath"

This shocked Sherlock more than the slap. "Where is he?"

"At home, it's Sunday"

Sherlock stormed off leaving the others to follow behind trying to catch up.

***

They sat in Anthea's BMW. Sherlock in the backseat, Anthea as driver, and John sitting in the passenger seat.

"You said he's cut before"

Before Anthea spoke Sherlock answered, "He's cut himself since he fourteen", John was shocked,

"I never thought Mycroft would be that type of bloke".

"He didn't have an easy childhood", Anthea spoke quietly.

"I thought you grew up together?", John asked Sherlock.

"We did, my parents weren't overly fond of Mycroft", Anthea scoffed at that.

"Weren't overly fond, Sherlock?", Anthea couldn't believe her ears, "They beat him black and blue until Mycroft and Sherlock were taken from their custody", John gasped, shocked at the unveiling of information.

"What did they do to him?"

"A lot", was the only response they gave him before the arrived at Mycroft's home.

**

They made it into the house easily enough, both Sherlock and Anthea owning keys.

Anthea and Sherlock both headed towards the study, but a quick look proved Mycroft to be elsewhere. They checked every room downstairs.

Anthea and Sherlock made eye contact, John could see fear in both their eyes, before the both ran toward the stairs. Years of practice gave John the easy ability to follow quickly. The sprinted into his bedroom and towards the ensuite.

They tried the door but it was locked.

"Mycroft open the door", Anthea ordered.

"Give me a moment, my dear", they heard Mycroft respond. The fear slightly evaporated from hearing Mycroft's voice.

"NOW, Brother dear"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, open the door now"

"Just- Just give me a damn second, will you?", the heard scrambling behind the door.

"Break open the door John", both Anthea and Sherlock moved out of the way as John kicked the door in. What they saw on the other side was not something John was expecting.

Mycroft sat on the floor trying to get up to get a flannel but his legs wouldn't hold him.

"Get out", He flinched shocked. Sherlock stormed towards him angry.

Mycroft did something John thought he would never see from the ice-man, he cowered. Sherlock's anger evaporated completely at Mycroft's flinch. He lowered himself in front of his brother.

"Mycroft", he said his name softly, grabbing Mycroft hands covering the area around his face, "Look at me brother". Mycroft slowly lowered his arms, his face pink with embarrassment, "I will never hit you, Croft". Mycroft whimpered burying his face into the nape of his brothers neck.

Sherlock held him, letting him shake, but he didn't cry. "I'm so sorry, Croft. I love you, I'm sure I speak for all three of us when I say we care about you"

Anthea sat on the otherside of Mycroft, "Myc, what have you done?", Mycroft trembled again leaning back against the tub.

"I HATE myself", Mycroft admitted, "I'm a terrible person, I'm fat, I'm a freak", Mycroft said this with such contempt, such condemnation John's heart melted for him.

"Stop", Mycroft seemed to just realize John was still standing in the doorway, "You're none of those things Mycroft. You're loved, you're wanted, you're underweight for god's sake, and you're most definitely not a freak"

"Now please let John clean you up", Sherlock said still sitting beside his brother. Mycroft nodded. John knelt between Mycroft bent knees. 

"There's a first aid in the medical cabinet", Sherlock retrieved it. John started cleaning Mycroft's thighs with the flannel. He winced in sympathy as Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"You don't have to be completely silent, I know how much it hurts"

"I'm afraid I'm used to being quiet when confronted with pain", Anthea's heart twinged and she grabbed her bosses hand.

"Everytime Mycroft vocalized his pain as a child he was beaten more severely", Sherlock choked out.

"Ah, so you told the good doctor"

"I did, actually", Anthea admitted, "I'm sorry for the invasion of privacy, sir"

"It's alright, my dear", Mycroft squeezed her hand. "I understand". Anthea smiled at him.

Soon enough John finished cleaning off the blood. What he saw underneath made him sick. Mycroft thighs were littered, absolutely, completely littered with slashes.

"Jesus", John couldn't hold back his exclamation, "Mycroft how often do you do this"

Mycroft's cheeks flared with embarrassment, "Occasionally since turning 14. Every night, beginning two weeks ago"

Sherlock let out a sob surprising everyone in the bathroom, "Please, believe me Myc. I love you, you've always been there for me, I'm so sorry for how I've treated you"

Mycroft couldn't do it anymore, tears fell down his cheeks as he wiped his brothers tears away with the pad of his thumb, "That means the world to me, Lock. I love you too"

John just finished bandaging his thighs when he spoke again, "Take off your shirt", Mycroft reddened and shook his head 'no'.

"I need to do a quick check up, take your shirt off"

"It's ok, Mycroft, we can trust John"

John was a little confused as to what they could trust him about  until Mycroft took his shirt off. John, Anthea, and Sherlock all sucked in breath as Mycroft revealed his torso. A ridiculous amount of scars covered his upper body. Some of the scars were jagged, some precise, some long, some short and deep.

"What happened?", John asked.

Sherlock responded when Mycroft didn't, "The only time I ever heard Mycroft scream when he was getting beaten. My father had beaten him with his fists into a submissive position on the floor, then came the belt", Sherlock took another breath, "Instead of the leather side people usually use on their children, my father had gotten the idea to use the buckle of the belt. I can still remember the echo of his screaming across the house. I almost got to him to late. Our father beat him to a pulp, he wasn't moving when he finally stopped. I called the ambulance, we haven't seen our parents since."

John quickly finished his exam and Mycroft was happy to replace his shirt.

"Is that the reason for the suits?"

Mycroft only nodded, worn out.

"Cancel his work schedule for the week please Anthea", she nodded and got straight to work. Mycroft made to challenge John

"Doctor's orders", John silenced him, "To bed with you"


	3. Chapter 3

Both Sherlock and John had to aid Mycroft to get him to the bed, each man supporting one side. As gently as possible they lowered him onto his mattress but John could tell how much that movement pained Mycroft.

"We'll be downstairs, if you need anything just holler", John smiled sympathetically and left the room along with Anthea and Sherlock.

***

 They all sat together in Mycroft's study, still, until Anthea broke it, "What are we going to do?"

They all looked at each other no one quite knowing exactly how to handle such a delicate situation. John got up, the room still in silence as the they thought over Anthea's question, and poured three drinks from the scotch decanter next to Mycroft's oak desk. John handed one to both Sherlock and Anthea keeping the last drink for himself.

Simultaneously all three of them drowned their drinks, this time when John got up he brought the whole decanter with him.

"I ... I d-don't know", Both John and Anthea could see Sherlock fighting to release the foreign words.

"We will simply have to be there for him, whenever he needs us even if he doesn't want us", John said simply, not realizing the difficulty of doing just that.

They sat in silence pondering over what actions each of them intended to take when Sherlock spoke again.

"We need to go through the house. Destroy anything he could harm himself with; Razors, Alcohol, other ... substances"

"We can't invade Mycroft's privacy like that, Sherlock!", John quipped.

"No", Anthea fought, "Sherlocks right. It's necessary. Just like when Mycroft found out about Sherlock's drug habit, he searched everything, paid people off so they wouldn't sell to you, even letting his workload slip trying to protect Sherlock. That's what he needs right now, a little tough love".

John had to admit he didn't disagree with Mycroft's actions. "All right lets get to it"

***

They searched for what felt to John like forever. Mycroft's house was massive even if unfurnished. 4 hours had passed by the time they were finished. They had confiscated 13 bottles of hard alcohol, 5 razors, and various other objects Mycroft could use to hurt himself, or even under the influence.

When they were finally finished, sipping on the one bottle of scotch  they kept for themselves they heard, "I hope you didn't mess up my sock index".

Mycroft joined them sitting across Sherlock in a wing-backed chair.

"We didn't, I made sure", was all Sherlock responded. Mycroft merely nodded, his lips pulling downward into his usual grimace.

John let his eyes flash over Mycroft's stiff form,  _Did the man ever relax?_ He took in his unusually slouched posture and dark bags under his eyes. He was dressed in a dressing gown, tied at the hips, with his legs crossed.  _That has to hurt._

"Have you been sleeping?", John asked not truly desiring Mycroft's answer but knowing their necessity.

Mycroft nodded.

"LIAR", Sherlock raised his voice two octaves, "We can see the bruises over your cheek bones from lack of proper sleep, the glaze cover over your usually sharp eyes, your slumped posture. You haven't slept a wink and when your body fails from exhaustion you only get 3-5 hours at the most"

"Why are you lying to us, Mycroft?", Anthea questioned.

Mycroft moved his stare from Sherlock to his assistant but remained silent.

"If we are going to do this you have to be honest, Mycroft", John added in his silence.

Mycroft closed his eyes willing himself to have a little more self control, especially in front of people. He re-opened them slowly and drew a breath.

"I am afraid to sleep". That's the most honest Mycroft has eve been with anyone, let alone three people.

"Why?", asked John.

"Because that's when I can't control my mind. I can't make myself believe it's not real. The pain feels so life like", Mycroft had closed his eyes again not bearing to make eye contact.

Nobody moved, nobody spoke, Mycroft kept his eyes shut. The silence went on for a while before John's doctor instincts took over again.

"Perhaps you'd like to speak with us about it?" Mycroft looked into John's eyes. For the millionth time he wished he could be someone else, that he could be John. Mycroft would welcome the ignorance, the bliss.

"Croft", Sherlock broke his long held silence, "Just this once, no one ever has to know, only the people in this room, your closest confidants. Let the walls down just once" Sherlock's begging broke Mycroft even more. He could do this for his brother.

"I've night terrors every time my body fails me and passes out. Sometimes they are re-occuring, sometimes they change. I dreamt one night of the last beating I received from Siger"  _He couldn't bare to call him father._ "The dream starts with me bringing home that test I got a 92 on, Siger was so angry."

John was baffled, "He beat you because you got a 92, thats an A".

Mycroft gave John a small smile that was the opposite of sincere. "Siger refused to accept anything below perfect", was the response John got.

Mycroft continued, "Father asked to see my test so I gave it to him. He took one look at it and backhanded me so hard I fell on my ass". The three of them could see anger bleeding from Mycroft's no longer glazed eyes. "He picked me off the floor by my collar and dragged me upstairs to my bedroom. "I couldn't even apologize before the beating started. He kept his hold on my collar so I couldn't fall down or get away. He hit me over and over, in the mouth, the nose, and the stomach"

Sherlock's, along with the other two occupant's, mouth went dry. Mycroft had never told him the details of his father's beatings.

"I was on the verge of unconsciousness when he finally let me drop to the floor. Then off came his belt, he dangled it in front of me like I was a dog he was trying to scare off using a beating as consequence. I was on my stomach on the floor. I couldn't even move my arms enough to protect my head, I was a sitting duck. I hadn't expected the buckle, I was to dazed. I could only contain my yells for one lashing. It hurt to scream, my voice was raw. And that's usually when you walk in, when you persuade him to put the belt down, to not kill his oldest son, but as of two weeks ago the dreams changed. You don't walk in to help me anymore. You walk in and whisper in my ear, Siger continues his beating until I either wake from it or my dreams go black and I assume I've died." Mycroft cut himself off, revealing more than he meant to, he just couldn't contain it once he started talking.

The room is deadly quiet, Mycroft doesn't lift his eyes from the floor.

"What do I whisper?", asks Sherlock in a small voice.

Mycroft doesn't respond for a long moment. Eventually John and Anthea give up hope of him ever responding, then he speaks again.

"You deserve this, Mycroft. No one loves you, your own family doesn't even want you". Mycroft pauses again, but cuts Sherlock off before he can speak. "And I do. I deserve it."


	4. Chapter 4

_He refused to shed the tears that threatened to spill over onto his gaunt cheeks. He didn't think they were gaunt, he was nicknamed 'Fatcroft' for a reason after all. He laid very still on his bed, wishing his life would just end already. On second thought he could just kill himself. Sherlock didn't need him, didn't even like him. His parents thought of him as a nuisance. He didn't even have an acquaintance that would spare a second thought for his soul._

_With his mind went up Mycroft rose from the bed stiffly and more than a little sore from his last beating, this time it was his mother. She always used a paddle on him instead of hitting him with her fists saying, "I have to use this paddle because I can't even bare the touch of your freakish skin", and "The hospital staff must has mixed up the babies at birth, there is no way you're my son"._

_He walked cautiously downstairs, his parents didn't appreciate him wandering from his room. Eventually, he managed his way into the basement. He grabbed the rough rope that lied there unused and rushed back upstairs to his room with it._

_He entered his ensuite immediately, tying a proper noose with the knowledge he had read in an old book about lynching in the American South. He tied the unknotted side around the base of his toilet. After he felt it was properly secured he took the other end and tossed it over the upper railing of his shower curtain. He gave it a firm tug until he was positive it would hold his weight. Satisfied, he re-entered his room and sat at his desk. He couldn't leave nothing for Sherlock, he deserved a reason after all._

_He was half way through the note when there was a knock on his bedroom door. The only person who knocked on his door was Sherlock. Although Mycroft wished he didn't have to see his brother moments before his suicide he knew he had to act completely normal._

_"Come in", and his door opened revealing his little brother. Mycroft looked up and was shocked at what he saw. Sherlock had tear tracks down his face, his eyes were red with the exception of the massive, black bruise over his left. He had a split lip that was still bleeding and dirt all over his clothes._

_"What has happened?", Mycroft rose and crouched in front of his brother. Mycroft didn't get a response, his brother was to focused trying to breath through his hiccuping as he weaped nearly silently. Mycroft took his brother's face into his hands gently, and Sherlock's cheeks heated from shame. Sherlock studied the floor unwilling to make eye contact with his brother._

_"Tell me what happened, Lock"._

_"Harrison", was the only word Sherlock could spare, frightened of the lack of oxygen reaching his lungs._

_Mycroft knew who Harrison, or as his friends called him, Harry, was. His older brother was Mycroft's age, and Mycroft had several scars from him. He was a violent boy that no one differed with in fear of becoming his next victims. Though Mycroft had never even spoke to the boy he had decided Mycroft was as good a target as any._

_"I'll take care of it", He promised, noose long forgotten in favor of being needed by his brother._

_***_

_Mycroft walked the halls of the school. His stomach was in knots and he was perspiring from internal stress. He knew where to find Thomas, Harrison's brother, and he made his way towards him slowly._

_The boy was standing in a huddle with his usual clique. Mycroft walked over trying for casualty._

_"Thomas!", he raised his voice a bit before he could chicken out. He was about ten paces from the other boys but he still felt like cowering. Thomas turned, shocked that Mycroft would seek him out. He made eye-contact, and Thomas grinned at him maliciously._

_"Well, if it isn't the little poof", Mycroft swallowed as the boys started walking towards him. Apart from Thomas their was three other boys. Mycroft summoned his courage, he thought of how his brother cried from pain and humiliation. A rage stirred within Mycroft and he sub-consciously took a more dominant stance, puffing out his chest._

_"What is it you want, Mycroft? Another beating, eh?", his entourage chuckled behind him._

_"I want your brother to leave Sherlock alone", he said as demanding as he could make his voice sound._

_"I'm not going to do that, Mike", god Mycroft hated that name,"both your brother and yourself are freaks, you both need to remember you places in the food chain."_

_The boy cracked his knuckles, trying to be intimidating. It was working._

_"Sherlock is not a FREAK! And your brother better leave him alo-". Mycroft didn't get the opportunity to finish speaking as the wind was knocked from him by a fist to his stomach._

_He hunched over wheezing. He felt hands reaching to secure his arms, but Mycroft wouldn't have it. Not this time. He had never tried to fight back before, terrified of the consequences if his father ever heard about it. This time was different though, Sherlock was involved. Mycroft would do anything to protect his brother and keep him happy._

_He lashed out against the hands, thrashing uncontrolled. He landed a punch on one of the boys, he was pretty sure it was Thomas. He tried again but someone caught his fist, it was held immobile. Eventually  they had him trapped. He struggled in their grasp, but he was weak and they were strong. He raised his eyes a fire burning inside of them and looked straight at Thomas._

_Thomas had the beginning of a bruise forming over his cheek, Mycroft couldn't help but smirk. He felt empowered, he had finally fought back._

_Thomas met his gaze, anger glaring from behind his eyes, "You're in for it now, Freak". The punches flew and kept coming. The boys of Thomas' gang held him aloft even when his own legs failed to hold him. Their was no reprieve. Blow after blow landed. He could feel the stickiness of blood flowing down his face, after one particularly vicious punch he heard the crunch of his nose breaking. Unholdable tears streamed down his face. After what had must have been atleast twenty punches to the face and stomach Thomas gave them the order to drop him._

_He laid where they had dropped him, trying to curl up on himself but failing due to his abused abdomen muscles. His vision was black and blurry. Thomas knelt over him and whispered in his ear, "You ever try something like that again we'll kill you and that freak you call brother". Thomas stood and spit on Mycroft's battered form. Mycroft gave into unconsciousness._

_***_

The room was quiet for an unhealthy measure of time after Mycroft's confession. Mycroft was positive they were all staring at him with shock but he kept his eyes firmly glued to the floor.

"How can you believe that, sir?", Anthea asked trying to calm herself.

"I have plenty of data to suggest it", Mycroft said avoiding any true answer, though it was true enough.

John continued to act as therapist, "Fine, why do you deserve it than, Mycroft?"

"I've already told you, I do not make it a habit to repeat myself, Doctor", Mycroft replied sharply.

"Oh suck it Mycroft", Sherlock finally spoke. "We're here to help you, whether you want it or not"

"Since when have you ever been there for me, Brother", he sneered  _brother_ as if cursing his existence. Both Mycroft's and Sherlock's masks returned. A burning fire against the faked indifference of chilling ice.

"You wanna talk about brother's being there for each other, do you?", Sherlock asked ready to attack.

Both Anthea and John could feel the taut tension, the looked as if they were about to lunge for each others throats. John decided on the cautious approach. John cleared his throat then said, "Please, both of you, calm down", he said it just higher than a whisper. The tension didn't dissipate but the unlocked their gazes.

"Perhaps we should take a break", Anthea suggested. Mycroft rose immediately, albeit unsteadily and limped from the library.

"I'm going to go check on him, make sure that he doesn't need anything, or do anything stupid", she added as an after thought, "You two best stay here." 


End file.
